Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (34 page)

Bridget leads me to the far end of the Hall of
Harlots, where I see a large raised stage of sorts. Along the edge
of the stage stand several burly-looking men, all armored from head
to toe and carrying heavy weapons—pikes, maces, broadswords, axes.
Why the guards need to arm themselves against a bunch of women in
silk and satin is beyond me—unless the guards are trying to protect
the women from something else. Like, perhaps, themselves.

As if reading my mind, Bridget squeezes my shoulder.
“Don’t even think ‘bout tryin’ to escape the Hall, milady,” she
whispered. “If ye do, yer as good as beheaded. I’ve seen it happen
many a time.”

That’s enough to send chills down my spine. “So
that’s why they’ve got all the heavy weapons, then? To keep us all
in our place?”

Bridget nods. “That’s the main reason, lass. But
there’s another one as well. Sometimes the knights of the garrison
take a few too many liberties with the Harlots without paying Lord
Verdigris his due first, and when that happens, the guards ‘ave to
step in.”

“What do you mean,
pay Lord Verdigris his
due
?” Though I can well imagine.

“Lord Verdigris is lord an’ vassal over nearly a
thousand knights, fighters, and mercenaries,” Bridget explains. “He
gives ‘em shelter, food, an’ protection ‘ere in the castle. Not to
mention use of the Hall of Harlots. And in exchange, lass, they
must give Lord Verdigris ‘is payment.”

“What kind of payment?”

“Oh, lots ‘o different kinds, lass. They hand over
their peasants’ crops, they give ‘im a share of whatever
gold-n-silver they happen upon in their knightly missions. But that
ain’t the chief way they pay Lord Verdigris fer ‘is protection, oh
no. Mostly they go fight in battles all ‘round the countryside on
his Lordship’s behalf—all without payment in coin. If His Lordship
thinks one of ‘is knights or mercenaries ain’t pullin’ his weight,
then heads will roll. And I do mean that literally, lass. Heads
‘ave rolled right here in front of me own eyes, they ‘ave.” Bridget
shudders. “Keep that in mind whenever you have a notion to escape
the Hall, lass.”

I shudder. “Well, I certainly don’t have any plans
to escape,” I say. Not at this point, anyway. If what Bridget says
is true—and I have no reason to believe it isn’t—I’d be stupid even
to try.

Bridget walks me along the edge of the main guards’
platform and over to a small nook I hadn’t noticed before. “’Ere’s
‘nother spot ye need to know ‘bout,” she says. “These are the
Harlots’ Personal Guards.”

I glance into the tiny nook, where I see at least a
dozen men crammed together up against one wall. Unlike the burly,
armored guards upstairs, they look rather timid and altogether
unhappy to be here—not unlike many of the Harlots themselves.

“They don’t look much like guards to me,” I
offer.

Bridget purses her lips. “Well, that’s ‘cause
they’re slaves themselves, just like you an’ me, lass. The Personal
Guards are assigned to watch over specific Harlots who are
a-gettin’ out of line.” She lowers her voice. “I’ve never been able
to know this for sure, lass, but there’s a rumor roundabouts that
says the Personal Guards are castrated if they try to escape the
Hall. Or if they’re caught a-takin’ pleasure from one of the
Harlots without prior permission from Lord Verdigris.”

I’m horrified. If that’s true, no wonder all the
Personal Guards look so miserable.

“But His Lordship does let the lads ‘ave a free
encounter with the lesser Harlots now an’ again,” Bridget adds.
“His Lordship ain’t completely heartless, even if he seems that way
most o’ the time.”

My eyes settle on one particularly sad-eyed young
man at the far end. His face is pale and wan—yet still
attractive—while his body is trim, toned, and gorgeous. He has
flowing brown hair in a ragged, layered cut with sideburns—the
classical Regency hairstyle sported by Napoleon, Murat, George IV,
and so many other famous men of the period. He’s dressed in a
loose-fitting white silk poet’s shirt with a low, open collar that
reveals the rippled chest muscles beneath, and breeches that cling
tightly to his athletic thighs. He’s a stunning specimen of
manhood. I’d love the opportunity to get my hands on him—forbidden
fruit or not. But how?

“What exactly would I have to do to get a Personal
Guard assigned to me?” I ask, playing innocent.

Bridget clucks. “Oh, lass, ye’d mostly have t’do
somethin’ to make Lord Verdigris displeased with ye. An’ I wouldn’t
recommend ye do
anything
to make Lord Verdigris displeased
with ye. He can make yer life miserable if ye do, he can.” She
glances over both shoulders and gives me a wink. “But if there’s
somebody in the Personal Guards ye got yer eye on, I might could
arrange it for ye on the sly. But if ye get caught, I had naught to
do with it. Understand?”

I nod. “See what you can do to help me meet the
sad-eyed one there,” I whisper.

Bridget touches a finger to her nose. “’Tis good as
done, lass. An’ a good choice o’ lad at that. But it could take me
awhile. Meantime, ye need to start attractin’ customers.”

Attracting customers.
Well, I suppose that’s
easy enough.

If I only knew how.

Chapter
5

I’m back in my bedchamber agonizing over what my
claim to fame (not to mention essential tool for survival) will be
in the Hall of Harlots when suddenly, it all comes to me.

Here in this long-ago time and place, I’m called
Lady Louisa of the Crossroads. So why not make my bedchamber a
crossroads
of sorts? Figuratively speaking, of course.

Lots of things happen at a crossroads.Important
things. Pivotal things. Sometimes, even
dangerous
things.

I instruct Bridget to go hunting for some long
leather straps, some rope, maybe even a few chains if she can find
them. And some big, heavy wooden poles, the kind suitable for
suspending people from. I tell her I’ll need a hammer and some
nails, too. Or failing that, spikes and maybe a big heavy rock.

Bridget looks at me like I’m crazy. But she doesn’t
argue. “I’m here to serve milady,” she says with a shrug, and
disappears down the hall.

Why all the lumber, tools, and harnesses, you
wonder?

I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit that I was a
CampFire Girl until I was seventeen. Not only that, I was the
Elizabeth, New Jersey CampFire chapter’s chief expert on Campsite
Construction and Mountaineering. I know how to build a permanent
emergency shelter out of nothing but twigs, empty Ziploc bags, and
leaves. And thanks to a backwoods sports competition the New Jersey
State CampFire council sponsored, I also know how to construct
outdoor gymnastics equipment out of logs, branches, and a little
bit of rope. I never thought anything I did back in my CampFire
days could possibly come in handy later in life—until now.

I am Lady Louisa of the Crossroads. And “The
Crossroads” will be the hall of sexual gymnastics I plan to build
in my chamber—the centerpiece of which will be a giant wooden cross
sturdy enough to support a person.

Did I mention that I also spent a summer at a
Catholic sleepaway camp when I was twelve? I helped build a
life-sized crucifix for a passion play while I was there. And if I
remember my medieval history correctly, they are wild about passion
plays in the twelfth century. Absolutely
wild.

If things go my way, Lady Louisa of the Crossroads
will be holding some passion plays of her own here in the Hall of
Harlots, complete with life-size crucifix, whips, chains—and plenty
of breathless, sweaty appeals to God Almighty. Though my passion
plays will be quite different from the ones staged all over Europe
every spring. On my stage, there will be a lot less faith and
Catholic guilt, and a lot more passion.

A
lot
more.

God help me if the Spanish Inquisition were ever to
set foot in here. Because I’m about to commit some serious
blasphemy. The kind of blasphemy Mary Magdalene and Salome would
probably approve of.

I am no longer Louise Jackson, underemployed,
overeducated highway toll collector and history buff. I am Lady
Louisa of the Crossroads, the Hall of Harlots’ new reigning Queen
of Passion and Submission. Any man who comes to my bedchamber
seeking the pleasures of the flesh will learn that there’s a lot
more pleasure to be had than just what the stuff tucked between our
legs can give us. Because when one surrenders, body and soul, to
the power of another, the possibilities for sensual satisfaction
increase thousandfold, and beyond.

I may be a sex slave, captured and held prisoner
thousands of miles and hundreds of years away from my own home, but
there are still ways for me to find a little freedom.

I may be a sex slave, but I can have slaves of my
own, too.

It’s only a matter of time.

The only question is, who will my first client be? I
hope to hell it’s not Lord Verdigris. Even with as good a lover as
the man is, the idea of being his captured-and-imprisoned property
still turns my stomach.

Then again, I just might be able to use my tools of
passion and sublimation to turn the tables of power on him—in my
bedchamber, at least.

I’m mulling over the possibilities when Bridget pops
back in. “All is arranged, milady,” she beams.

“What do you mean?”

“All the—ahem—rather strange items you requested
shall be delivered to milady’s chamber by midday.”

I’m impressed. “How did you manage it, Bridget? And
so quickly!”

Bridget gives me a knowing smile. “When milady is
Lord Verdigris’ new favorite in the Hall of Harlots, ‘tis easy to
find most anything she desires.”

My heart sinks. “
I’m
Lord Verdigris’ favorite
now? But I thought Madam Jasphet was!” I pause to clear my throat.
“Lord Verdigris and I, we’ve only been—ahem—
intimate
once.
And it was over so quickly—how—“

Bridget raises her hand. “’Tis only ‘cause yer new,
milady. His Lordship is always most enamored o’ his newest
acquisitions to the Hall of Harlots. But he grows bored fast. An’
when His Lordship gets bored with a Harlot, all his knights an’
vassals follow his lead an’ get bored with her, too. ‘Tis why ye
always need to distinguish yerself, milady.” She gives me a wink.
“An’ I must say, milady, with all yer strange requests fer lumber
an’ leather, yer already doin’ a right mighty job at distinguishin’
yerself.”

I rise from my couch and head for the dressing
table. Bridget follows me there and immediately begins brushing out
my hair. “Is that so, Bridget?”

“Oh yes, milady. An’ ye might be interested to know
that the handsome member o’ the Personal Guard ye had yer eye on
‘as been dispatched by His Lordship himself to ‘elp ye assemble yer
new—ahem—
workshop
the moment the materials arrive.” She
leans in and whispers in my ear. “Ye might ‘ave yer chance with
young Master Pembroke sooner than ye thought.”

I do a double-take. “Who’s Master Pembroke?”

“Why, ‘tis the sad-eyed lad from the Personal Guard
ye fancied back in the Hall, milady. Master Pembroke, I daresay
he’s
got eyes fer
ye
too, he has. Fer he went out o’
his way to make sure His Lordship assigned him to ye fer lookin’
after.”

My belly flutters, and I feel my crotch go a little
warm. “Really?”

Bridget nodded. “Oh yes, milady. But I daresay,
don’t be too eager. Make yer eyes at ‘im when he comes to ‘elp ye
today, but keep yer distance, at least ‘til His Lordship ‘as his
way with ye first.” She frowned. “I don’t like to be the bearer of
bad news, milady, but His Lordship’ll be ‘spectin’ to be yer main
course this evenin’. He’s footin’ the bill fer all yer strange
lumbers an’ leathers, ye know. An’ I do suggest ye give ‘im his
money’s worth, like it or not.”

So it would appear that like it or not, I’ll be
fucking Lord Verdigris again tonight.

I grit my teeth and strengthen my resolve. I suppose
there’s worse things that can happen besides fucking a
drop-dead-gorgeous man who really knows what he’s doing in the sex
department—heartless, deceptive time-traveling sex-prison warden or
no. At one level it’ll scratch an itch that desperately needs
scratching.

And at another, it’ll be the first step at
establishing Lady Louisa of the Crossroads’ reputation as the
hottest, sexiest dominatrix the Middle Ages has ever seen. The
Spanish Inquisition has nothing on me.

Or at least, they won’t once I actually
figure
out
how to be a sex dominatrix. You see, I’ve never actually
been
a dominatrix before. All I know about S&M I read in
my dog-eared copy of
The Story of O
back in high
school
.

I guess I’ll be flying by the seat of my
panties.

Or to be more accurate, by the seat of my bare cunt,
since we ladies in the Hall of Harlots aren’t permitted to wear any
panties.

Maybe what I need most is some inspiration. Someone
I can fantasize about while I’m mentally preparing to turn the
tables on Lord Verdigris and make
him
into my sex slave,
instead of the other way around.

And I know just who would fit the bill.

I settle back into my chair and relish the sensation
of Bridget’s hairbrushing against my scalp. “So tell me about this
Master Pembroke,” I say. “What’s he like? Where’s he from? He seems
different from all the other men I’ve seen since I got here.”

Bridget finishes brushing my hair and begins
braiding it. “Master Pembroke’s a mysterious one, he is. Lord
Verdigris captured ‘im from somewhere far, far away, but nobody
knows exactly where. Or when.”

My eyebrows raise. “So you know that Lord Verdigris
is a time traveler, Bridget?”

Bridget laughs. “O’ course I know, lass! Where d’ye
think
I’m
from?”